A Little Favour
by MitziMartyn
Summary: Year after the Weston incident an old schoolmate visits Greenhill, begging for help. Little does the former prefect know it will lead to another bloody adventure.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I.****  
**  
One of those mornings.  
The old injury felt ignored and reacted by sending sharp spikes of pain to stab his whole arm – Herman did not mind that, at least something kept him company in the long string of identical days filled with nothing save for regret.

A single moment of blind anger cost him everything.  
The last year has been rough – ever since the expulsion his life took an unfortunate turn, to put it mildly. Interacting with friends became nearly impossible, as if there was a great distance between him and other people. Edgar initiated a meeting once – just once – awkward for them all, except Gregory who simply refused to participate.

His parents' disappointment was the worst – their son always made them proud until that fateful night. Staying under the same roof with them now reminded him of the shadow his actions cast over the whole family and so he decided to make use of his allowance and found lodgings in the city.  
It did not help much – the guilt remained.

Herman sat on the bed, head in hands. For how longer could he live like that? In all honesty, he did not even dare to guess. They should have hung him for his crimes instead.  
The silence of his custom-built prison – a bed, two armchairs, a chest of drawers and a heavy table with a chair – disturbed an unforeseen sound. Somebody was knocking at the door.

Three long steps from the bed. Most likely just his landlord needed help moving something again. Not that his arm could be of any greater help – he could use it but it would never be the same. Perhaps it was better that way.  
The door opened with a loud creak and the green eyes widened in surprise. In front of him stood Thomas Locke, a gentleman from his dorm. They were the same age but Locke, with his round, innocent face always appeared much younger. And a bit like a sheep. "Good afternoon, Greenhill. I hope I am not disturbing."

"I cannot say I expected you but it is a nice surprise," stated the former prefect, beckoning the grey-eyed youth to come in.  
Thomas, despite being about as sharp as an average spoon, noticed certain changes in the former prefect. Other students knew about the expulsion – even though the reason became an object of speculation – but was the expulsion also the reason of Greenhill's evident and dramatic change? The blonde looked like a poor imitation of himself. Pale, unshaven, moving like an old man – and even his voice seemed to lack something vital.  
The visitor almost immediately rued coming but he could not turn away and leave now, no matter how gladly he would do that. He sat down, watching Greenhill who took a seat opposite him. Just what happened to the sportsman?

Herman hardly belonged to people who would beat about the bush. "What brings you here?" As much as he appreciated the visit, it seemed improbable Locke would go through all that effort to find him just because he would crave that company.

_Touché_.

The grey eyes dropped down, out of sudden interested in the bland pattern on the carpet. The problem Locke needed to solve was rather sensitive – that sort of problem his family would not tolerate, if they found out. "It is all rather embarrassing. It... it involves a girl."

Awkward silence set in. "Go ahead," nodded the blonde after a moment in spite of his confusion. Why would Thomas – or anyone, for that matter – come to him for advice of this kind? Edgar would have been a better choice.

The guest was fidgeting, nervous like a child whose mischief exploded straight into his face. "I made an idiotic mistake. The girl in question is truly amazing. Beautiful, clever and... talented in every area imaginable."

"I still fail to see the problem."

Thomas turned a striking shade of red. "The problem is that she tends to sell her affection. For a living. And I... entered the shop. More than once. But now she threatens me with revelation, unless I pay – if my parents find out, father will kill me. I... I am clueless as of what to do."

At last it dawned upon Herman. He rose from the cushioned armchair, glaring daggers at his companion, outraged by what Locke, that bloody tickle-brained plonker, just confessed to. "And what do you want from me? You are a disgrace to your whole family and it would serve you right if they found out!"

Locke could not muster the courage to face the raging man and so he just sat there with the expression of oblivious stupidity plastered over his features. He was always an outstanding rower – but a poor thinker.  
The outburst faded away in the matter of a few seconds. "Pay her what she asks and pray nobody finds out." The best advice he could offer despite knowing from experience – painful experience – that scandals seldom showed the decency to remain secret.

"In fact, I wanted to ask a favour of you. Maria – that is her name – is refusing to meet me but maybe you could convince her to forget it. Please... for old time's sake."

Old time's sake? Oh yes, the old times when they occasionally caught a glimpse of each other in the hall or during a lesson. Weren't Herman the prefect of the crowded dorm, Locke would probably not even remember him. Of course, he broke up a few fights and arguments inevitable amongst a bunch of hot-blooded boys but back then it was his duty.  
Back then, when he still had any.  
Good times.

* * *

_Why am I doing this?_ asked the ex-athlete himself as he sized up the lodging house at the address Locke gave him. _Oh, old time's sake, I nearly forgot._

An elderly landlady opened the door for him – he spotted something crafty in the way she measured him with her searching gaze, like a horse for sale.

"How may the old me be of service to you, 'ighness?"

"I came to see miss Tyler in a matter of utmost importance," he explain as the woman led him in.

She closed the door behind him and cackled, her eyes sliding to his crotch. "Must be important. Bet she'll be quite delighted, sir. I'll tell her she's got a visitor."

Not even five minutes after he was admitted into miss Tyler's room, located upstairs. It was nothing like he expected – in fact, a neat place kept in perfect order with colourful flowers on the windows and a white crocheted cover over the sizeable bed occupying most of the space.

Herman imagined moral disorder differently.

Miss Tyler received him sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing nothing but a smile and a long dressing gown drowning in a sea of ruffles made of material the young gentleman could not name even if he dared to look at her for more than a second. After all, he could not just ogle a woman in a state of undress.

For some reason his discomfiture amused the prostitute. "Oh dear sir, scared of a girl?" she teased, sitting on the bed. "It should be the other way round – I don't bite. What's your name? You know mine, Jenny said."

"I do," confirmed the youth, at last daring to look up at the girl. "Greenhill."

She was a fine woman, no more than twenty years of age and a delicate heart-shaped face framed by rich black curls reaching well to her waist. "Pleased to meet you." She crossed her legs, revealing an inappropriate amount of white skin. It made focusing on the current situation harder than he would have expected. "Greenhill, a nice one. You can call me Maria."

"_Miss Tyler,_ I am here on behalf of our mutual acquaintance," started Herman, sitting on an armchair close to the bed.

A corner of her full lips twitched and they eyes shaded by dark locks gleamed with sudden caution. "Are you? Which one? I have many friends."

"His name is Thomas Locke. He would come himself but according to my information you refuse to meet him."

The tension visible in her face disappeared as quickly as it appeared. "Oh – Thomas. He is such a dear friend of mine!"

"You have a strange way of treating friends."

"Do I? I think I treated him well. In the exact armchair you chose, for example." The girl found his embarrassment hilarious and she was curious as of how flustered Greenhill could get. "Do you want me to demonstrate it? I'll give you a free sample."

His jaw threatened to hit the floor. "Know some shame!"

"I get paid for not knowing many things, darling," replied Maria, standing up. Something about her movements reminded him of a wild feline, prepared to take down its prey. The slender fingers wrapped themselves around the ends of the lace holding he dressing gown together.

"So..." A slow, seductive movement untied the bow. "A free trial?"  
The garment slipped off her shoulders in a pool of pink fabric around her ankles.  
Herman hurried out as if there was a bomb, followed by the sound of Maria's wicked laughter.

* * *

Locke was waiting for Greenhill in a small tea room near the house of ill fame, impatience written all over his face, a cup of cold tea being the best evidence of an hour spent in dread of the nearest future.  
He jumped up as the blonde appeared, knocking the beverage over. "How did it go?"

"As I said before - pay her what she wants and be grateful you got out of that so easily."

A deep sigh escaped the other's lips. The sheepish youth coddled a feeble spark of hope the blonde would scare the prostitute enough for her to drop that outrageous affair. "It cannot be helped then. I hate to ask you for another favour – but could you deliver the money for me? She won't let me see her, as you know. I do not want anyone else get involved and you are one of the most trustworthy men I know."

If Locke expected flattery to get him somewhere...

He was right.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

People's chatter mixed with the cries of fruit-sellers only to be howled down by the song of an exceptionally atrocious street musician. It appeared so that every living soul in London gathered on that one street buzzing with life.  
Not that Herman had the time to observe – the weigth of a small parcel in his pocket guaranteed he would not forget his task for today. If everything went well he could be back in his residence by teati-

"Greenhill!" A familiar voice pierced his eardrums. "What are you doing here?"

The green-eyed youth turned around to face noone else but the former Scarlet Fox prefect – he changed as well, now looking more extravagant than before if such a thing was even feasible. Most likely influence of his uncle.

"I..." _I am going to a brothel so a prostitute stops blackmailing a former schoolmate. _"I am taking care of something for an old acquaintance."

Redmond chuckled, running his slender fingers through his hair. "You mean Thomas?"

Herman's perplexed expression made his old pal burst out laughing. Of course, even at school the other prefects – mainly Violet – enjoyed teasing the sportsman exactly for how easy it was to confuse him. That afternoon Edgar found it fitting to be merciful and explained: "He visited me too but I had something... else to do. Ah, it's been ages and I meet you just as you are to visit the adorable miss Tyler. How about we went together and then sat somewhere for a chat? I want to know what is new with you."

The taller man hesitated. The last meeting was awkward but maybe it would be better now, after some time passed. Besides that, he missed his friends with all their shenanigans. "We can do that – unless you are busy." Judging by his attire one would have guessed he was on his way to a party, especially in comparison with Greenhill's simple, austere style.

A small shrug given in response. "No, not really."

They walked in relative silence, both trying to find a safe topic for conversation. It was hard despite their sincere efforts. When they arrived to the lodging house, it was a relief.  
The landlady stood in front of the door, struggling to unlock them with her hands full of packets from different shops as sweat ran in streams down her blemished face.  
She spotted the pair and greeted them with a cheeky grin. "Didn't expect ye that soon, sir. And ye even brought a friend along. Seeing miss Tyler again, I reckon? Just got back from the market, brought a piece of cake for dessert. I go 'round the shops every Saturday, Mrs Landsell always leaves a nice bit for me."

"Miss Tyler – in person, preferably," replied the maroon-eyed male to Jenny's incoherent blabbering with a bright smile.

"Just go upstairs, she'll be there." At last she managed to unlock the door, holding them open for the two blonds. Herman nodded to the woman, heading upstairs without a word. The sooner they would be over with it, the better.  
Something seemed amiss but he had no idea what could it be.  
The same floral wallpapers, the same intense odour of overcooked cabbage, the same bloodstains on the staircase...

_Wait.__  
_He nudged into his companion, pointing on the stained wood. They exchanged a shocked glance and rushed upstairs. The door was locked. He kicked it open.  
Too late.  
Maria laid sprawled over the bed, facing the crocheted cover painted crimson with blood. A sharp intake of breath filled Herman's nostrils with the sticky scent and he was back there, trapped in memories of the dreadful night that turned his life upside down more than a year ago. Different actors, different scene but the same stench of iron and pain lingering in the air.  
As if led by an invisible puppeteer he approached the dead woman. Edgar just caught up and stood there on the threshold, gasping for air.  
Herman noticed a tiny key in her long fingers. Everything suggested she tried to lock herself in the room from the assailant but it was pointless - a kitchen knife was sticking out of her back like a winder – in the mess of stab marks over her arms, hands and back the ex-prefect could not be sure which wound brought miss Tyler to the unsavoury end.  
"I will inform the landlady," mumbled the shorter, turning on his heel. "And if I were you I would not touch anything."

* * *

Jenny could not believe that news at first but soon after she was to be found on the street, frantically searching for a police officer. In the end she returned with an elderly bobby who would rather stay the hell away from any actual crime.  
Edgar and Herman stayed there, in a room Jenny dared to call a parlour, after answering the police a few mundane questions since they were the ones who discovered the corpse. Jenny made them all lousy tea, resembling mud both in colour and taste. "If I knew... I wouldn't go anywhere," she lamented, shaking her head in shock. "She had a lot of visitors but she was a good tenant. Always paid in time. And such a tidy lass too. Where will I find another?"

The ex-athlete did not react but at least Edgar nodded, listening to the woman with an expression of sympathy.

"People these days! Never before somethin' like that 'appened. Poor missey. Shame on whoever did that!"

Edgar lifted the cup to his lips but then changed his mind and laid the cup aside. "I am certain the police will find out."

"As if they cared! The law doesn't give a toss 'bout girls like her – but I'm tellin' ya, she was as decent as any noble lady, if not more! But who cares? They won't bother findin' anythin'. They can't find even their own arses." Jenny might have been an old libertine but the red-eyed youth could not miss a good deal of truth in her words.

The officer joined them after a few minutes upstairs, a victorious grin threatening to split his face in two halves. "It's a no-brainer. When did you find her?"

"About half past three."

The bobby waved a letter at them. "Some Thomas wrote to her he'd drop by at three o'clock. We'll find him and we've got the murderer."

The men exchanged a quick glance. Herman doubted Locke was their culprit. He would let that woman do anything she pleased to him without a word of complaint for nothing more than a hint of possible affection. The parcel burning in his pocket served a solid proof of that. For now though it seemed wise to remain silent about knowing him, as long as the police had nothing but his – fairly common - first name.

The landlady kept tapping her feet and biting her lip. People of her kind did not really crave to have pigs in the house. "Is that all?" she barked.

"Seems so. Well, I'll have to report that all. Someone will come later to retrieve the body. You might be called to the station later but it's all clear."

Jenny stood up, hurrying to let him out of the house. "Thanks, sir, 'ave a nice day, sir." Then she shut the door behind him, letting out a sigh of relief. "Dogs. Like 'ell I've got time for that. How am I s'pposed to find a new tenant now? Nobody wants to get a bed after a corpse!"

"I know someone who would," blurted out Greenhill, unsure what went into him. "Just hold that room until tomorrow."

Later, much later he tried to answer a simple question. What made him say that? A prostitute more or less, it made no difference and the murder was none of his business.  
Yet, he got involved with a single sentence.  
In his defense, there wassomeone who might be curious – now if said person stopped avoiding them.

* * *

"You know someone like that?" inquired Redmond after they managed to excuse themselves from Jenny's den. "You never cease to amaze me."

"I was thinking about Violet," he replied, avoiding the other's gaze.

"Don't you think he has had his deal of this? Besides that, he did not seem enthusiastic about meeting us the last time. Remember?"

"How could I forget." He understood the artist. He wanted to forget what happened just as much but their farewell left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth whenever he remembered it nonetheless. Friends who slay together, stay together – wasn't it supposed to go more like that?

That sour mood lasted him the whole way to their estranged friend's town house, an elegant building not far from the river. Herman visited it a few times before _the incident _and it always struck him how empty it seemed, even before Mr Violet's death.

A footman opened the door, surprised to welcome visitors, especially so late in the evening. Before he could say anything, Edgar shoved a visiting card in his face. "We need to talk to Violet. Gregory. Is he present? We need to see him in a matter of utmost importance."  
The servant hesitated for a second before leading them into the hall, lavish aesthetical dream of architecture. There he bowed to the unexpected guests, holding the piece of paper in front of himself like a shield. "I will inform him of your arrival."

When they were alone, Edgar took the liberty of making himself comfortable on a sofa placed underneath a grand Venetian mirror, tapping his manicured fingers on the armrest. "I look forward to seeing Violet again. Would you believe that?"

"If he agrees to meet us," pointed out the other man, pacing around the hall.

"I am certain he would not kick us out when we came all the way... oh, wait, we're talking about Gregory here."

They waited and waited and waited and... oh the suspense, waited. The grandfather clock opposite the window struck eight and Herman was turning to leave when the door opened – but instead of the eccentric artist there stood an elderly maid. "Please, gentlemen, follow me to the drawing room."

"Violet agreed to meet us?" wondered the former lion-prefect, genuinely surprised but pleased to hear that.

The maid bit her lip. "If you want to put it this way, sir."

And really, soon Violet – tinier and paler than Herman remembered - joined them in the drawing room, pushed inside by someone neither could see. "What's the matter."

"I am so happy to see you, Redmond, you look fantastic! I missed you, guys, how have you been? Sorry for hiding from the rest of the world like a hermit, making everyone worried about my well-being!" exclaimed Edgar, opening his arms in a gesture every single Opera actress would kill for without second thoughts.

Gregory was nowhere close to being an Opera singer so he ignored it, plopping down on an armchair by the window. "So?"

"We need your help," explained the taller blonde, rubbing his neck. It was not exactly the best start but Violet would not come, were it for the joy of having them as company.

"Helping you is not on my list of the wisest ideas," snorted the dark-haired youth, hugging his knees. "Not after the last time."

Straight to the heart. Yes, Violet had the right to be upset, after all, Greenhill got them all expelled before finishing their education, not to mention a few... other things but at the same time his remark angered the green-eyed man. Nobody held a gun to their heads when they promised to stand by their short-tempered friend, they took share on the crime by their own free will even though he wanted to confess and repose his life into the hands of justice. "Forget I asked," he snapped.  
With a disgruntled sigh he turned to the door, feeling the weight of a friendship ruined beyond repair on his shoulders.  
Edgar shook his head, in all honesty disappointed by the cold reaction. Could it be the others meant so little to him? Would he treated them any different if _the incident _did not happen? Hard to tell now.

A whisper, just loud enough to sound smug, stopped them.

"But go ahead. It sounds interesting."


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

For the third time that week – three times more than he would have liked – Herman stood in front of Jenny's lodging house, facing the landlady's rotten grin. "This is the possible tenant I mentioned," he explained, standing behind the boy with Edgar like concerned parents.  
The woman let them in, surprised they really came. "Good, good. He wanna see the room? I cleaned it up a tad."  
Violet nodded, pulling the cape deeper into his face as if to cut himself off from the old swindler and her mucky house. That was not interesting, that was just gross.  
Edgar laid an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer with a bright smile. "We will show him the way, _madame_, no need for you to be bothered with that. He is a bit shy, you see." The scene yesterday still was not forgotten and so the former fox-prefect refused to waste an opportunity to pick at the artist. For that particular remark he received an elbow to the ribs.  
Jenny shrugged. She made a quick search for valuables the day before and so they could not possibly find anything worth mentioning there. Her supervision was not needed.

* * *

The landlady did not lie – the blood was gone and new bed linen replaced the bloody cover and pink sheets even though blood stains most likely remained underneath, on the mattress. Nothing suggested a gruesome crime occurred there a few hours ago.  
"What do you think you will find here?" inquired the flamboyant blonde, looking around the room, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat.

"Hard to tell." Herman doubted going through the dead prostitute's things was the most honourable thing to do but the danger of Locke getting caught remained and the former prefect could not let the police imprison an innocent man, not when he himself escaped justice.  
_Escaped... _  
Ignoring the sting of pain in his arm he walked over to her chest of drawers, with some difficulty opening the first one, full of yellowish, lacy things one could not even name in decent company. "There might be another letter, a diary or something like that. We have to find something."

"In her underwear," snorted Gregory. "Who would have guessed?" He plopped on the bed, watching the others search through Maria's things, his face impassive underneath all that makeup, resembling a puppet rather than an actual living being. His face was fine though, it was his attitude what started pissing off the others, mainly Edgar.

"It is not like there are terribly many hiding places," he pointed out, rummaging through old fashion plates stashed on her nightstand. To his great surprise, all depicted ballet costumes – from _La Sylphide_, The Willis, Don Juan, Swan Lake and a few others he could not identify. "But it seems she liked ballet."

The artist stood up, peeping over the blond's shoulder, gnawing on his lower lip. "Why would she have something like that?"

"Maybe she craved a change? Her sort of business can get rather dull, I suppose," suggested Viscount's nephew, returning the pictures on the nightstand.

The ex-athlete moved to the bed, trying to lift the mattress. Without a moment of hesitation Edgar rushed to help him, trying not to show he noticed the difficulties the old injury caused his friend to spare him further embarrassment. In all honesty, it was a miracle Herman regained some use of his arm after Arden's attack.  
"Something is here," announced the dark-haired boy. If his companions did not know him, they would almost be led to think it excited him. He snatched a black, leather-bound notebook and opened it on a random page. "Interesting."

The green-eyed man let the mattress fall. "What is it?"

"It's full of names. Sometimes there is an address. Numbers. Dates. Newspaper clippings. But mainly names." Four pages filled with neat, elegant handwriting in paragraphs straighter than most Weston students. "Locke is there too, on the last page."

"Do you think she could keep a track of her... er... customers to blackmail them later?"

"No, Locke is special," chuckled Edgar, fixing his hair. "Of course, she did that. But who would be as careless as to give his real name?"

Gregory handed the notebook over. "Your uncle is listed there too. Twice."

The young noble snatched it in haste, biting his tongue to prevent another ill-considered remark. Yes, Chambers resided on the page snuggled between Valentine Thompson and Edward Holmes, next to Viscount's photo that recently appeared in the newspaper. "We have to give her that she was careful."

"Not careful enough," sighed Herman, gesturing his friend to hand over the jotter. The other blond ignored him, observing the clippings.

"Some of these don't see to be relevant to the sort of information gathered here." If only Harcourt was with them, he would see something. "News from the parliament. Death notices. And here, something about the Brice case. I have been there when it happened – maybe I even met miss Tyler! It seems strange to think that now, when she is dead and cold."

"The body is now the temperature of its surroundings, so not that cold," corrected him the artist but the former sportsman was interested in something else.

"The Brice case?" he asked, puckering his impressive brow. "What is that?"

The dazzling noble sat in the armchair with a theatrical sigh. "You have no idea? Do you live under a rock? … oh, wait, do not answer that. The whole London is talking about it. Lady Edith Brice, the richest and the most stunning heiress around was murdered during her own party. Talk about bad luck. Waterson, her betrothed, is going to hang for this soon, they arrested him a few days ago. He did not attend the event but he was seen lurking around the house and it was later found out she cancelled the engagement just the day before. Nobody knew that and he did not tell anyone, not until the police found a letter from her. He must have been desperate – her money could save him, he was knee-deep in debt. Of course, the only thing missing is his confession, he still denies being guilty."

The taller man kept questioning him, his curiosity piqued. "And you were there when it happened?"

"_Oui, mon ami_. I rather enjoy masquerades and even without the scandal it would be the highlight of the year. Lady Edith was dressed as a fairy or something but, to be honest, she looked more like a bride. Waterson shot her when she went to change her costume – she spilt red wine all over her gown. Black hair, white costume, crimson blood mixed with red wine – just like Snow White."

Herman tapped his chin in thought. "Perhaps it was miss Tyler who caused a quarrel between lady Edith and Mr Waterson. Well, killing her did not help him anyway. What a pity – but now we know for sure Locke did not do it. Waterson did."

The artist pulled his cape deeper into his eyes. "He could not kill her from the prison. She died yesterday, forgot? Locke could have done it – how can you be so sure about his innocence?"

The youth sighed, rubbing his bad arm for a moment before answering: "I just know. I know people like Locke. He is many things but not a murderer."

"Impressions we have of people can deceive. You don't look like a killer either." A mere whisper had the two blonds staring in shocked, hurt silence.

The first one to speak was Redmond who completely lost his composure. "I warn you. Say something like that once again and I will..."

"… what? Kill me?"

"Just stop shoving it in Herman's face all the time! Are you going to pretend now you were not involved? How are you better than us?" hissed Edgar, grabbing the other's shoulders with trembling hands. If a look could kill his friend would be nothing but a stain on the carpet. "You are just as guilty of what happened as we are so just be so kind and shut the hell up! Just... sit over there and draw or something and stay silent if you have nothing else to say!"

Gregory looked down. "I didn't draw anything since we left Weston."

The grip on his shoulders loosened. "You must be joking."

"I'm not."

"But-"

The black-haired boy reached up, tugging at the bleached strand of his hair, growing out at the roots. "I'm going home." He crossed his arms, glaring at his shoes. The artist – could he still consider himself one now? - regretted saying anything. He did not want their pity, or blasted compassion. Being left alone was all he wished for. Silence, shadow, solitude and sleep. Was that too much to ask for?  
When Edgar and Herman showed up uninvited yesterday, denying them meeting seemed like the wisest possible decision but that was where his mother – the better and living half of his parents – stepped in, concerned, kind and so, _so_ persuasive. In the end she managed to convince him a short meeting could not hurt.  
It hurt like hell.  
"Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to go on living my life without you two in it." Gregory shrugged Edgar's hands off his shoulders and left, slamming the door behind himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

"Well, that was unexpected," stated Edgar once the initial shock faded. "Do you think he will be fine?"

The tall German shook his head, taking Maria's notes from his friend.

"At least now he made it clear he does not want to see use ever again. It was a mistake to drag him into this – after all, her death is none of our business to begin with. You know there is virtually no chance Locke will be caught and you didn't care about miss Tyler so why do you do all of this?" He studied Herman's expression for a moment. "You are not obliged to tell me but try answering this to yourself. I just want you to be certain of what you are doing before something ugly happens." A shrug followed the innocuous-wannabe remark. "Think about it. I am attending miss Brice's funeral tomorrow. _Maybe we will meet there_ but now I suggest we take our leave before the lady of the house appears."

His companion nodded, hiding the troublesome notebook in his pocket. "Do you think I should go after him?"

"I am inclined to doubt this is what he wants at the moment." The dazzling blonde ran a hand through his hair, averting his gaze from Herman. "Look, I should be heading back, I am visiting the theatre with uncle later but I hope this is not our last meeting. Just think of what I have said. Please."

* * *

The night found Herman once again sitting in his empty, rented room, flipping through the pages marked with Maria's handwriting. That much was left of a human life after somebody blew out the candles. Would anyone mourn her? Would anyone even remember? Jenny treated the sudden death rather as an inconvenience than a tragedy. The police officer acted as if investigating something less than a stolen shawl.

Derrick Arden's funeral matched his rank. They sent him to the eternal – _eternal_ – rest with a sea of flowers, drenched in tears of his friends and family. Of all those people he deceived. Derrick was an ulcer on the face of humankind and yet, if he could, he would take everything back without a moment of hesitation.

Redmond knew why he had to try and find the woman's murderer probably much sooner before it dawned upon the former lion-prefect. The gentleman could never atone for his crimes but maybe, just maybe, he could gain a drop of forgiveness.

* * *

Herman's appearance on the funeral pleased Edgar – pleased, but did not surprise. Viscount, as Mr Brice's friend got them an invitation for a small gathering after the ceremony. Not that Herman wished to disturb during such an occasion but he hoped something would tell him whether the Brice case had something to do with Maria's death or not. There must have been a reason why she was interested in it.

Mourners filled the spacious hall, expressing their deepest sympathy to the girl's guardian but the half-German stayed aside, watching. After yesterday's discovery he could not help but wonder how many of those seemingly respectable people could know miss Tyler or others of her kind. The mere idea made him sick and so he tore his eyes off the company and let his gaze roam freely around. Paintings covering the walls looked down upon the scene with dead, still caught his interest. "Redmond? Do you know who is the lady depicted over there?"

"In fact, that would be miss Brice herself. Beautiful, don't you agree?"

"Not my type but yes, she is. Was. She reminds me a lot of miss Tyler." The same rich, black curls, the same slender figure and even their faces were alike. "They could be sisters."

"I cannot judge. I only caught a glimpse of miss Tyler and that was when... you know. So, do you think she had something to do with the case?"

The ex-athlete studied the painting for a long moment, trying to decide. "It could be just a strange coincidence." He found it hard to believe his own words. Two nearly identical young women died in the course of a few days and Maria's notebook implied there might have been a connection. But how did she fit into that? "Who is there from her family?"

The noble thought for a second. All those people in their mourning clothes looked too alike to him. At last he spotted a short man with light brown balding hair and ruffled sideburns. "She was an orphan and had only her uncle and legal guardian in one, Mr George Brice. That would be that one by the window. I think he is some sort of a merchant – lace import from Ireland or something - and he loved spoiling his niece, having no children of his own. They could be seen together all the time. He was also the one who found her." A scandalous but not that unlikely idea crossed his mind. "Do you think Mr Brice could seek miss Tyler's company because of that striking resemblance you mentioned? Do you think he could be in love with his niece?" The image of a fresh, delicate lady with a man twice her age made his stomach do a flip but even so he had to admit things like that happened all the time.

"I cannot dismiss that possibility but even if that was the case, he would not do anything to Maria, especially not now, when she was the closest thing he had to the object of his affection. It... it must be devastating for him."

The former Red House prefect nodded, scanning the area for other people involved to humour his friend. "I remember that maid over there, serving refreshments. She was lady Edith's lady's maid and also her close friend, from what I have heard. She was the one who sent Mr Brice upstairs, saying her mistress rang for her service but would not open. The door was locked. Poor girl, she looks awful." Indeed, the ginger in a uniform size too small for her chest did not appear too sure on her feet, as if she was about to faint.

"She looks sick," remarked Herman. "They should have given her a few days off."

"Maybe the household is short on staff," shrugged his companion. "Uncle is complaining all the time how hard it is to get decent servants nowadays." Not many had the courage to last in Viscount's mansion more than two months. "Oh my... and that one came as well? I am quite shocked they let him attend."

"Who are you talking about?" the taller youth demanded to know.

"Daniel Peatling. He was one of lady Edith's suitors but she was not really fond of his idea of romance. The rumours say he sent her flowers every day for the last few months and waited in front of the door almost every evening. If I am not mistaken, the police had to intervene more than once. He was obsessed with her."

"Was he at the party as well?"

Edgar shook his head, accepting a glass of wine from one of the servants present. "I see where you are going with that but no. He appeared at the beginning but he caused quite a scene and Mr Brice asked him to leave. Before you ask, no, I have no idea what was it about."

"During the investigation, was Mr Peatling interrogated?"

"I should think so but with all that evidence against Waterson, it did not seem likely he would have anything to do with the murder." By then the old schoolmates lead their discussion in whispers for their topic could be viewed as impolite, if not worse. "By the way, Waterson's confession is still missing. _Confessio est regina probationum_."

"He could be innocent, did anyone think of that? There is another man who had a reason, however insane to end her life and yet they arrested the first one who came along," murmured Herman, running a hand through his hair. What a display of injustice.

"It is not like you can prove his innocence now, Greenhill. The police turned everything upside down already. Just forget it. After all, he had a solid reason to murder her." The smaller blond took a sip of champagne. A frown flashed over his lips – the drink tasted like something he would rather not describe in great detail. When he glanced to his friend again, he was not there anymore.

* * *

Grand mansions could cause trouble to people used to humbler dwellings but once you understood their internal order, finding a specific room posed no challenge.

The former prefect made his way through the empty halls, searching for Edith's room – or rather, the crime scene.

These few days Greenhill found himself in ladies' bedrooms more often than anyone would deem appropriate but once he stood there, he had no idea what to search for. He stood there for what felt like an hour, unsure where to turn first.

The choice was made for him for, out of nowhere, the man picked up the sound of footsteps outside, in the hall, quickly approaching.

_Oh no._

Just a glance around before slipping behind a satin curtain leading to Edith's dressing room. If luck stood by his side, it was merely a servant passing through the hall but one could not be too cautious, considering the situation.

The young gentleman squeezed himself behind a tall mirror in the corner of the room overstuffed with furniture.

The bedroom door opened with a creak. Herman waited, holding his breath. His heart pounded against his ribcage like a hammer – that sound simply had to betray him. A drop of sweat trickled down the curve of his neck behind the scratchy collar. No. That could not be happening. No. Just no. How would he explain that? The blond closed his eyes shut, preparing for the worst as the steps could be heard, louder and louder.

"Get out."


End file.
